Too Close to Holmes
by johnny-girl97
Summary: An investigation that conceals a deeper secret, and a client with something to hide. Sherlock has a new problem, something he hasn't encountered before. Nothing will be the same. Rated T for minor language only, nothing naughty within. Contains OC, ill-disguised sexual tension and plenty of tea. Read and Review!
1. Chapter 1

_Thud. _ Not for the first time, John heard the sound coming from the lounge room. _Thud. _It was one o'clock in the morning, and not even the pillows covering his ears would block out the miscellaneous noises that were echoing inside the flat. _Thud. _What the _hell _was he doing? John had being lying in bed for hours, willing Sherlock to go to bed, or at least quiet down. It had been three days, and Sherlock had neither eaten nor slept in that time. As a doctor, John was convinced that Sherlock was a medical mystery, as he seemed to run purely on science, coffee and nicotine patches. It made him a brilliant detective, but a nightmare to live with.

With a heavy sigh, John swung his legs out from under his duvet and rubbed his burning eyes. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he massaged his temples with his fingers, taking deep calming breaths before he went to confront his flatmate. He always managed to get himself worked up, and it never did him any good – Sherlock never actually bothered with anyone's opinions, save for his own.

John fumbled beneath his bed for his fleece-lined slippers, and grabbed his dressing gown from the hook behind his door. He felt like Mrs Hudson when she came upstairs late at night to tell them off– all he needed was some hair curlers.

Like this, John stormed into his lounge room, halting just as an ornamental knife came whizzing through the air and stuck, quivering, in the faded blue wallpaper by his ear.

'Rising early, are we John?' Sherlock's voice drawled from the other side of the room. He was sitting on the armchair next to the mantle, but with his legs where his head should have been, and his tangled curls hanging just above the floor. Next to him was a pile of scissors, butter knives, pliers, scalpels, and anything else sharp he could get his hands on. A similar array of objects were sticking from the wall opposite, amid small slits where he had obviously pulled them out to start again.

'What in-' John took a deep breath and looked away from the chaos, fists clenched, counting to ten in his head, slowly, like if he were a teacher dealing with a particularly trying student. It was surprising how many similarities the two situations had. 'What, in God's name, are you doing?'

'Trying to distract myself from the tedious nature of the world and all those who live in it,' He drew back his arm and flung a bread knife into the wall.

'By using our wall as a dart board?'

'Indeed'

'Oh for crying out loud…' John's shoulders slumped as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 'Right, that's it, get up, Sherlock! Get up, and find your shoes,' John turned on his heel and stomped into his bedroom.

'Why?'

'We're going for a walk!'

'What, pray tell, are we doing?' Sherlock asked. His voice was slightly muffled, as the lower part of his face was covered with his customary blue scarf. They had left their flat quickly and quietly -so as not to disturb Mrs Hudson – and were now walking briskly along the pavement. It was the early hours of the morning, but London was still awake, the far-off sounds of traffic and police sirens mixed with the heavy beats of music and shouting.

'You haven't slept in 72 hours, and because of that I haven't been able to rest either. So I'm taking you out for a walk, in the hopes that it will exhaust you enough to make you sleep. Either that or make me so tired that I will sleep through whatever stupid rubbish you get up to,' John replied curtly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

'Have I been keeping you up? I'm sorry,' Sherlock tried to appear sincere, and failed.

'Shut up,' John snapped. 'And you haven't eaten either.

'Ugh. Eating's boring. And overrated,' He rolled his eyes and huffed, sending his breath out in a cloud of vapour in the cold air.

'What, even more than breathing?' John asked, a touch of exasperation in his voice.

'I am being slowly convinced of the benefits of breathing. In the meantime, eating has slid down several places on my list of practical activities,' the corner of his mouth turned up in a wry grin. 'But if you are insisting, as my doctor, where should we go?'

'There's an Indian place a couple of blocks down. They do a brilliant chicken tikka-masala. I took Jilly down there a couple of-' John paused as Sherlock made an amused sound. 'What?' He asked him impatiently.

'How did Jilly react to that then? Being taken to a restaurant that serves you in polystyrene trays? Really, John, I didn't think you could be so clueless.'

John was astonished, and a little irritated, that Sherlock was lecturing him on human behaviour.

'What's wrong with it?' He demanded. 'She said she enjoyed herself,'

'Then she was lying, probably trying not to hurt your feelings. But then, she didn't really think about your feelings all that much when she dumped you, did she?'

'You're a real prick, you know that, right?'

"I have been informed of that fact quite regularly, actually. Come on though, John, didn't you pay attention to her earrings? Or her perfume?' It was Sherlock's turn to be exasperated now. His friend simply looked at him blankly. 'No. Of course you didn't. If you had, you would have known not to take her out to _"Big Tej's Indian"_. My perfume analysis would have done you some good, if you had paid attention to it.' Sherlock's voice maintained its pretentious, conceited tone, but a slight bitterness crept in towards the end, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't help the automatic reactions that betrayed his true feelings.

'Don't tell me you're _still _upset that I said it was a little ridiculous,'

'I believe that your exact words were"_a complete bloody waste of time",_' Sherlock enunciated each word very carefully.

'Right, so _where, _exactly, has the ability to recognise different perfumes been useful?'

'What about Jilly, hm? Jilly the woman who _you_ were seeing, but _I_ knew more about, because _I _paid attention to her perfume and _you _did not.' His scarf had slipped from his face and specks of saliva had caught on the fibres.

'Oh, so you knew her and I didn't?'

'YES! She was a call-in secretary, her shoes were cheap and so were most of her clothes! But her perfume, her _perfume_, well, that was a very different story. The most recent _Dior _perfume, by my reckoning, which is going for £120 a bottle. £120 for a perfume, purchased by a woman who gets paid a little more than minimum wage per hour?'

'Maybe she had just treated herself?'

'If she had bought this luxury item for herself, she wouldn't be wearing it all the time, would she? Surely, if she had splurged so much of her cash on this one item, she would savour it, wear it only on very special occasions: not just for a night-in with you. It wasn't bought by her then, no, it was a gift. You mentioned her birthday is coming up in a month – so it certainly wasn't a birthday gift, and this particular perfume came out several months after Christmas. A casual, luxurious gift for no apparent reason? The ties are obviously romantic. So this came from a previous, and very recent, lover, who obviously had a lot of money to burn. You said that she hadn't been in any serious relationships lately, so this, combined with the expensive, year-old emerald earrings that she so _carelessly _left at our apartment a few weeks ago, points to one conclusion.' Sherlock paused for breath, and, John suspected, dramatic effect.

'Alright then, what is it?'

'Your Jilly had very expensive tastes that her current financial predicament could not accommodate. So she instead angled for rich lovers who could sate her material desires. You only dated for a little while – not nearly long enough for any meaningful gifts to be shared – so why did she 'move on' so quickly? I assume it was when she discovered that while you are a doctor, you are also a returned-soldier who needs to share a flat and go to cheap take-aways to get by. This is why she wasn't best pleased to be taken to the Indian restaurant to which we are now headed.' Sherlock then whipped out his phone and started to text, avoiding eye-contact with his companion.

John was stunned. His legs kept moving, but his mind was slowly processing everything that he had just heard; his whole body was put on auto-pilot as he digested Holmes' logic. It all made sense – she only really became interested when he mentioned he was doctor. She had also become quite cold when he had started to mention his financial worries, but he had just assumed that she wasn't comfortable with lending him money. He understood what really happened, now.

Of course, that doesn't mean he was happy about it.

'So. Are you suitably convinced of the importance of perfume analysis now?' Sherlock sounded smug.

'Did you think, Sherlock, about how this would affect me?' John asked slowly, staring at the ground.

This confused his genius friend. Taken-aback, he replied 'No. Why would it affect you?' He didn't mean to seem uncaring – he was genuinely confused. John knew this, but instead of calming him down, it just enraged him even more.

'How would this-'John's hands began to shake. 'Do me a favour Sherlock, and just think for a moment. Think about what you have just told me: a woman who I was starting to develop serious feelings for only wanted me for my money, a woman who I've only recently got over. Now let me ask again – How do you think this would affect me?'

'Well, John, I assume it would make you revaluate your ability to judge people accurately, and perhaps pay more attention to the person with whom you create an emotional bond.' Sherlock had gone cold, his voice expressionless as it drawled out his words.

John just stayed silent for a while.

'What is it _now_?' Sherlock asked, looking down at his friend.

'You don't know how very wrong you can be sometimes, Sherlock,' John relied quietly.

'I'm wrong am I? Please enlighten me as to my mistake,'

'You just need to be more aware of people's feelings- oh God, who am I talking to?'John paused and sighed.

'What is it?'

'You know what, it doesn't matter.' He snapped 'You won't understand anyway. Look here we are, what do you want?'

They ordered their meal and sat in silence on the hard plastic chairs that the small café offered.

It was funny, really. Sherlock didn't eat very often, but when he did, he ate like a horse. John - who completed rigorous, army-approved weight –lifting and cardio exercises every day and did most of the housework between the two of them – couldn't even come close to the amount of food that his flatmate could consume in one sitting. As John stoically made his way through one serve of rice and Rogan Josh, Sherlock polished off three curries, a two-person container of rice and enough naans and pita breads to feed a small family. He wasn't a messy eater, either – whilst his appetite was enormous and he ate very quickly, he was very civilised about it, using the plastic cutlery like it was the Queen's silverware.

He delicately placed the final forkful of rice into his mouth, and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. With a sigh, he stretched his arms above his head, his purple shirt tugging up to reveal his lower stomach. John eyed it disdainfully. By all rights, his stomach should be bursting some of the buttons by now.

'Are we feeling a bit better now?'

'No. My stomach is full, but I feel…sluggish,'

'You did just eat a meal designed for four people in under 10 minutes,'

'My instincts had temporary control of my body – I couldn't stop, Now, I think my cognitive skills are now average at best. Still quite brilliant, by your standards, but unspeakably slow to me,'

'So, you might not be yourself for a little while?' John had chosen to ignore the quip about his intellect, but he couldn't help the hopeful note that entered his voice.

'Don't worry yourself too much. Give me ten minutes to digest and I will be back to normal,'

'Oh joy,'

They made their way back to their apartment. The exhaustion was tugging gently at John's eyelids, and even Sherlock seemed a little fatigued.

They slowly trudged up the stairs to their apartment, grunting a goodbye to each other before they went to their separate bedrooms. John had barely undressed before his drooping body slumped on the mattress. His final thought before he closed his eyes was: 'Oh good. My plan worked.' A faint smile played on his lips as he drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Well, this is exciting. Chapter 2, all ready and waiting to be read. It did take me about three months, but I'm going to ignore that little fact, because it's here now, in all its glory! Ahem. Anyway, this chapter was great fun to write, partly because I love doing the deduction scenes, but mainly because I get to express my obnoxious, rude alter ego – the side of me that society demands I keep mostly hidden- through Sherlock. I should warn you, there is an OC coming up. Don't be alarmed, it's not one of ****_those _****OCs. I get really irritated by authors who introduce a 'new character' that is obviously themselves. The story becomes ridiculous and gushy and vomit-inducing, so that will not be happening here. I promise.**

**Rant over now. Pay attention in this chapter, some of the details may become more important later on. Anyway, read, review, enjoy, and come back to see when I've posted some more. Did I say review? I'll say it again. Please review. It gives me a warm, gushy feeling inside. **

He awoke in the same position nine hours later. He felt sore, but the ache in his body was a good one – the sort of ache that only comes with a fantastically long, deep sleep. He knew that by the time he had got up and moved around, the soreness would fade and be replaced with alertness. He went to the end of his bed to the clothes that he had put on the night before, folded over the metal frame. He was pleased to discover that even in a sleep-deprived state he could manage to maintain a state of tidiness that Sherlock could ever hope to achieve.

On mention of his name, the doctor in him frowned. He should probably go and check on him, just to make sure that the sudden input of food hadn't disoriented his body and caused him to vomit up in the toilet again. It had happened to Sherlock once before, and he had been in such a foul mood afterwards that John was very motivated to make sure he was okay.

He grabbed his cardigan quickly, then realised that it was the one that Jilly had complimented. With an angry scowl, he flung it into the washing basket in the corner of the room and selected another one from his chest of drawers. He shrugged it on and opened his bedroom door, scratching the back of his head.

As it turned out, Sherlock was fine. More than fine, as it was. John had walked into their living room, to see Sherlock sitting in the sofa by the fire, legs crossed, his chin resting on his fingertips. He was staring intently at the seat opposite him. Or rather, the person sitting in the chair, because as John walked into the centre of the room, he saw the woman that the high-backed chair had concealed. When he did, he stopped dead.

She was one of the most attractive people that had ever come into the apartment. She seemed to be in her early twenties, with long, dark hair that fell down her shoulders in waves, contrasting with her fair complexion and high cheek bones. Not only that, but she was wearing was very figure-hugging black dress with deep neckline, and a hem that showed off her sheer-stocking clad legs. She turned to him and her blue eyes sparkled. For a moment, John thought that she seemed terribly familiar, but then her young face lit up with genuine warmth as she smiled at him, and any similarity to anyone he knew slipped away.

'Dr. Watson, I presume?'

'Er…'

'You presume correctly. Please forgive my colleague; he isn't in his most coherent state when he first wakes up. Have some tea, John,' Sherlock said calmly, gesturing to the teapot and mugs that were on the coffee table.

'That is quite alright. I don't consider myself a morning person either,' She smiled again as John poured himself a drink. John's head span. It was suddenly very difficult to keep the scalding liquid in the tea cup.

'Do sit down, John. You interrupted at a very convenient moment, actually. Miss Maisons was just about to tell me about something she thought might be of interest.'

'Er…Right! Okay. Sitting down…' John collected himself and sat next to Sherlock, smiling at Miss Maisons.

'So Miss Maisons-'

'Please. Call me Violet,'

'Of course. Violet. What were you saying?'

'Well, Mr Holmes, I discovered you when I stumbled upon the blog of your…colleague?' She paused slightly, eyebrow raised.

John groaned quietly. Somehow, the question of his sexuality arose very often in conversations when he was with Sherlock. It was a little upsetting, and he just couldn't figure what it was about him that would mislead people. Maybe it was the cardigans.

'Well, in any case, I stumbled across your blog, Dr. Watson. You seemed to be just the people that I needed to solve a rather tricky problem I have had,'

'Which is…?' Sherlock was losing interest fast. His eyes were wandering aimlessly across the room.

'It seemed rather trivial, at first, but now I'm feeling slightly more worried about it. You see, my house has a very complicated and sophisticated security system – cameras, lasers, pressure plates, the works-

'May I inquire as to the necessity of such a system?'

'I own a collection, Mr Holmes, of various items that are of considerable value,'

'Hmm. Continue,'

John could tell that something Violet had said had triggered his mind. Sherlock was studying her very carefully, looking for clues. Violet had picked up on his change as well, as a she faltered a little before regaining her composure.

'Yes. Well, anyway, I have this system in place, and so far it has been effective. However, recently, I have had a series of break-ins –'

'Ugh. Boring,' Sherlock dropped the polite façade he had put on and let his head droop against the back of the lounge.

Violet, to her credit, merely smiled. 'May I continue?' This got a look of confusion from Sherlock – probably because she was the first client to ignore his dismissal so nonchalantly – and he lifted his head to frown at her.

'Please go on, and excuse my friend, if you can,' John spoke through gritted teeth. It was bad enough to have Sherlock treat him or Mrs Hudson or any other boring client like this, but a beautiful woman? John was _not _going to let him get rid of her in a hurry.

'Thank you' she smiled gratefully at the doctor. 'As I was saying, I have had some break ins, but not of the usual variety. You see, for the past three weeks, at 1:18 am _precisely_, all the power is cut from the system. No cameras or microphones can pick up anything, and there is nothing to stop someone from coming in and taking what they like. Then, at 1.23, everything comes back to life. And every time, nothing has been taken,'

'It's probably a glitch. Talk to a technician,'

'Try to have a little respect for my intelligence, Mr Holmes.' She replied acidly. 'I have actually already tried that, believe it or not. He says everything is working perfectly, and there is no trace of any bug, glitch or problem with the system. The system just shuts down. So then, I studied the tapes a little more carefully, and I discovered something. Nothing is taken, but some things are…moved. Windows are ajar. Vases swap tables. Paintings are turned crooked. Once, a muddy footprint was left on the floor. _But nothing is taken.'_

John could practically hear Sherlock's ears prick up at this point. 'You've done a full inventory?'

'Every time,'

'Have you employed any guards to watch the facility?'

'Several patrol the grounds at all times, and they have reported nothing,'

'How interesting…' Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, his lips moving slightly as he spoke to himself.

Violet watched him for a few seconds through narrowed eyes, then turned to address John.

'So? Will you take the case?'

'Erm, well, I will have to confer with Sher-'

'We'll take it.' Sherlock was now sitting bolt upright, and watching Violet's every move. 'But we will need to visit your house to get a proper idea of the situation. As long as you are comfortable with that' He smiled at her fleetingly.

A flicker of uncertainty flittered across her face for the briefest of moments before she replied. 'Excellent. When are you free?'

'Any time, we have nothing else on,' Sherlock replied.

'How about Tuesday, after 3:30?'

'That sounds fine.'

'Great. I'm afraid I can't let you stay on any longer than 5, however, but you can visit whenever you need to,'

'The same time?'

'Yes, why?'

'No reason,' Sherlock replied indifferently.

'Fantastic.' Violet rose, extending her hand to both men. 'It was a pleasure meeting you both,' She smiled broadly as John took her hand, and he hoped his palm didn't feel to sweaty.

'Before I shake your hand, Miss Maisons, I think I should tell you something. You can't lie to me. I know you are trying to hide something,'

She froze, eyes wide 'Whatever do you mean?' she whispered.

'How old are you, Violet?'

'Twenty two,'

John furrowed his brow as he looked between the two of them. Obviously, Sherlock had picked up on something that he had missed.

'No lying, please. It's dull and predictable. And so far you have proven to be very interesting,' Sherlock was fixing her with a piercing look, his hands clasped in front of him.

She put her head in her hands and sunk back into the seat. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she spoke again. This time, her voice was different. Younger, rougher.

'You're a detective, Mr Holmes. _Detect,' _She fixed him with a glare.

'Very well,' He studied her carefully for a moment through half-closed eyes, searching for anything to give him to deduce an answer from. 'You dress very well, Miss Maisons. But that dress, whilst very expensive and well-tailored, doesn't quite fit properly. Your shoes are well-worn, judging from the state of the grip on the bottom, and the subtle signs of wear on the sides, but they seem to be giving you new blisters on your heel.'

Sherlock pulled his legs up underneath him, so he was squatting on the chair, and pressed his fingertips together. 'The foundation on you face is just a half-shade too pale – you can see the contrast in colour on your hairline. There are also cotton fibres from a t-shirt on the hem on your skirt, and there seems to be denim jeans just inside your sizeable bag.' She self-consciously shifted her bag closer to her, hiding behind her legs. 'You seem well-fed, you speak well, and you are visiting me for help, so you haven't stolen the clothes, not out of necessity, and _definitely _not for warmth…oh.' Sherlock's eyes widened and he smiled. 'They are your _mother's_ aren't they? That's why they almost, but don't quite, fit…she is probably, oh, 2 inches shorter? And about 3 inches wider on the hips. There is graphite from a pencil in the creases of your fingers, and your wrists tell me that you spend a lot of time typing. You seem too intelligent to be a secretary, and too conservative to be a journalist…you seem far too well-off to need to have either of those occupations anyway. So what are you?' He leant forward, and John could almost hear the gears in his marvellous brain whirring.

Violet was looking at the floor, her hair hiding her face.

'Mr Holmes. You still don't know how old I am,'

'I'm getting there. Also, if I am addressing you as Violet, I think that you can call me Sherlock. Anyway, your age…' Sherlock was just toying with her now, keeping her waiting.

'Hurry up, Sherlock.' John called irritably. He was _very_ keen to learn how old Violet was.

'Yes _alright _John,' Sherlock snapped. He didn't like being interrupted when he was showing off to clients.

'Oh. _Oh' _He leant back and grinned lazily. 'You said to visit between 3.30 and 5pm. You're still at school, aren't you? If we came at 3.30, it would give you time to be home and ready, and if we left before 5, then your mother would not yet be home. Looking at your physical development I'd say you're in an older class, but definitely still in secondary school. What are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?' The detective asked triumphantly.

'Seventeen. I've almost finished 6th form,' Violet was quiet, but not upset. Just defeated.

Seventeen?! John choked on his tea. He was privately very glad that Sherlock had discovered her real age before he had done anything embarrassing.

'So, Violet, why have you come to me in disguise?'

'I thought you would take me more seriously if you thought I was older, and...' she hesitated slightly before continuing. 'No one else is taking me seriously. I may have lied about my age but everything I have said about the break-ins is a fact. My mother takes the view that if they aren't taking anything, then it is nothing to worry about, but I am bothered by them. These things tend to escalate, and I want to end it before anything is taken, or someone gets hurt,' She looked determined, but her bottom lip quivered as she spoke; whether it was fear or sadness, John didn't know. 'So now you know who I really am, will you take the case, or not?'

Sherlock stood and looked out of the window, facing away from the rest of the room. He was momentarily silent, before chuckling and spinning around. 'How could I ignore a case like this? Ghostly intruders, who can evade a dozen guards, fool a flawless security system and yet take nothing? Why Miss Maisons, it's almost too good to be true.'


End file.
